


TOSKA

by DarkInsanity (Stereklenidus)



Series: HEIMAT: a place that you can call home. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Boypussy Stiles Stilinski, Dark Derek Hale, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Heavy Angst, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Stiles Stilinski, POV Stiles, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, True Alpha Derek Hale, Witch Stiles Stilinski, human vs werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stereklenidus/pseuds/DarkInsanity
Summary: “Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness.This is what Stiles feels when he wakes up with Amnesia in a resistant camp. There are no zombies like we read in books or watch in movies. But A brute who calls himself  the True Alpha and his followers have taken over Beacon Hills Dome usurping the mighty Demon Wolf.





	

**Author's Note:**

> INFO
> 
> Derek's Age: 34.  
> Stiles' Age: 23.  
> Undercroft: Is an underground prison were all the criminals and otherworld creatures are legally committed as a punishment for a crime  
> Citadel (The Dark Fortress):It is built to secure Nemeton and it is just above Undercroft.  
> Otherworld Creatures: Supernatural creatures, like werewolf, vampire etcs.  
> Witches: Are not Otherworld creatures but worshipers of Nemeton.
> 
> This Fan Fic I've been trying to write for 4 or 5 months now. It's Inspired by a book I've read long ago and can't remember the name. The concept, the background is some what relatable, like the Alpha, Beta, Omega dynamic. The dystopia and dome culture and the concept of mate-bond. Other than these, I've made significant changes in the plot. 
> 
> I do feel that my writing style has changed over the past months since I posted my last fic (I've deleted my old fic so I can rewrite them properly), hopefully for the better - I tend to think so, maybe it's just practice. So thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the continuations for this series.
> 
> It's unbetaed and all mistakes are mine. After reading if anyone feels they would like to help me please feel free to let me know. A little help always helps. I've tried my best to rectify all the errors, and if I keep looking it over I'm going to lose all my hair. I already know what the squeal is going to be but for that I need two weeks before I post it.
> 
> Looking forward to any comments.  
> Hope you like this Sterek Fic.  
> (NOTE: This fic is DARK and contains RAPE/ NON-CON elements, so be prepared for triggers. If it makes you uncomfortable then I'd advise you not to read.)

It was bitterly cold, so cold that the north wind swooping into the courtyard cut through Stiles’ heavy coat and chilled him to the bone.

“I can do this.” He muttered to himself though his clattering teeth as he fought off the chilly shudder that ran down his spin. Pulling the sleeve of his jacket, Stiles bared a tiny patch of his pale skin on the underside of his wrist. Glancing about he made sure nobody saw as he turned his hand away from view and rubbed the exposed pad of thumb of his gloved hand over the sigil chanting Shakespeare in his mind.

_Out of fortitude of soul I feel,_

_To endure more miseries._

 

The dark red Celtic sigil lit up with a soft golden glow around the edges, spreading tingling warmth though his body, giving him some determination that he lacked. He had made it this far...squinted amber eyes peered through the narrow slit between wool cap and layer upon layer of dingy muffler wrapped around his lower face. “I can do this.” He told himself again exhaling deeply breath though his nose.

 

A shrill cry of fear and wicked laughter caused Stiles’ curious gaze to dart towards the sound. His eyes widened, brows furrowing when he spotted a group of teenage males around the corner of the street dragging a small, wailing, trashing about and fighting for life, blond omega male with him. He swallowed hard against the uneasiness. His leg suddenly moved fast, right hand going behind his back and grasping his grip of his dagger, safely tucked there, knowing instinctively, these boys, with their sallow skin and thin bodies were set on survival no matter what the means.

 

Ducking his head, Stiles pulled the leather coat up tighter around his neck as a woman and child scuttled past him on the street beneath the Dark Fortress of Otherworld. Fear was evident on the female’s face as she pulled her child away before the males could spot them.

 

It’d been two hundred some years ago, those of the Otherworld creatures crept out of the shadows and made it known to the human race that they were no longer alone here on earth. And there were Werewolves and Vampires taking the matters into their own hands, came out and let the humans know they were no longer the top of the food chain.

 

It had changed everything.

 

Stiles sailed past a signpost, glancing over his shoulder every now and then. The street was busy, crowed with people. Fear gripping a tight claw around his neck.

After crossing almost two blocks, Stiles slammed to a halt beside a car half covered in snow, gulping down air, trying to get some oxygen back into his lungs. He bent over, taking a moment to rest and to push some strength back into his muscles. “Fuck!” he whispered harshly though pants of breathe. “Fuck!”

 

Looking up he found himself in front of a rundown cinema with large black burnt patches, and broken glass window. Stiles tried to remember if he had ever come across his place before when it looked vaguely familiar to him.

 

_Have I been here before?_

Stiles checked inside the car sitting on the street, peering though the dusty window to make sure there was nobody sitting. What he saw made him recoil, taking few steps back as his stomach churned.

_Shit!_

 

It wouldn’t be the first time, he’d seen skeletons on the street after he’d woken up without his memories, except the sigils covering all over his body. A pendent around his neck and blood lust telling him he was a Halfling—partial witch and partial vampire. But what Stiles saw now, the way the carcase had their bony fingers entwined and heads leaned towards each other, made him think with overwhelming sense of sadness that warmed his eyes: Where they a mated couple or a mother and their child, holding hands, consoling each other as they took their last breath. Did they die from hunger or where they killed?

 

His head dropped back, eyes closed as he took shaky breathes and sent a silent prayer to the gods, that whoever these two creatures were, Humans or Otherworld, may their soul rest in peace. Stiles thought mournful as tears clogged his throat, if only he remembered his spells, he would have made sure their souls found light and hope. If only he remembered.

 

Peeling of the glove on his right hand, Stiles flexed his slim fingers and turned his hand gazing at the sigil that sat proud on the back of the palm. It was a beautifully etched glyph of a wolf. Stiles almost smiled sadly trying to hone some positivity by rubbing on it. It almost felt empty. Like the wolf was dead as if there was to magical tether linked it to like the rest of his sigils.

 

The tattoo encapsulated something tugging deep and painful in his heart. It meant something. It meant _everything_. But he couldn’t remember _what_.

 

To him not only the wolf lyph but all his dark red sigils were a world within a world within a looking glass within a perfect mirrored pond.

 

To the interloper h’d become, he appreciated the artisan lines of the red curves and shadows. The detailing was superb as well as entirely eye-catching.

But it was more than that. So, so much more.

The throb in his soul knew what it was, but over the ten months, nothing had burst forth or let him guess.

 

Stiles lifted his head looking over when he heard hushed voices and quiet giggles and saw a mated couple strolling towards him. The tall female, with strong stance had to be the Alpha he thought catching her strong potent whiff as they came nearer, which meant the shorter male, thin and fragile looking was an Omega. His curious gaze slowly followed them; the female draped an arm over the male and turned her head burying her face in his hair and the male giggled some more.

 

Feeling a strange weight in his chest, Stiles slumped against the car and absently wore his glove on, getting a faraway look on his face. Reaching up Stiles press his palm on his chest and felt the pendent, hiding behind the layers of clothes, press to his skin as he willed snippets to come back. He begged the puzzlement of his past to slot into place, so he could make sense of this horrible world he’d awoken in.

But his mind was locked to him. A fortress withholding everything he wished to know.

 

He recalled the night he’d woke up in a make-shift hospital bed of a camp hospital.

 All he had smelled was blood.

Blood that was thick and ripe.

Blood that plastered his body, itching his skin. He had stirred, groaning softly as he rolled onto his side. Other sensation had begun to creep though the fog encasing his mind. The chill if the cold tent wall pressed against his back. The gentle patting of wet cloth on his forehead.

 

Forcing his eyes open, he’d immediate hissed against the harsh fluorescent light and had cringed hearing the roaring sound the generators. His actions had caused his caregiver to yelp, the metal stool scraped on the ground and toppled when she must had jumped to her feet.

 

Melisa McCall. He exhaled staring down blanking as the tip of his converse (Melissa had gifted him before he’d left their asylum) scuffed on the ground, recalling the name of his Beta caregiver. He recalled her warm coaxing smile and soft soothing voice; she used every time when she made him feed her blood from her wrist.

 

Stiles huffed a laugh behind the muffle as he pushed away from the car and started to walk. He recalled the horrified look on Melissa face when he had turned to bare the sorry excuse his fangs at her the first time he’d woken up, realising Stiles wasn’t only an Omega Witch they had rescued but a dangerous Halfling.

 

Stiles had instantly cowered away when she had shriek for help, scrambling away from him, quickly making a grab for a pair of scissors as her choice of weapon. He’d watched wide eyes, swallowing heavily, trying to ignore the bitter taste of confusion and fear as a group of nurse and Alpha men dressed in blue scrubs, looking like beast, filed into the tent at her call. Stiles’d fought wildly, snapping his teeth at the beastly men, when they had muscled him down to the cot and another nurse stuck an injection in his arms that had put him down for the count.

 

Stiles snorted to himself, thinking of the first few weeks in the camp hospital. Without his memory and identify Stiles had felt nothing like some dangerous Halfling but as some clueless Chihuahua puppy as they came.

 

Feet slowly down, Stiles pulled out his worn-out brown wallet from his pocket with few bills he’d earned working in the rescuer camp. Taking out his somewhat put together social security card, he brushed his thumb over it plastic cover and read what he knew was him.

 

NAME: GENIM STILINSKI

DOB: February-29-1993

GENDER: MALE, OMEGA

STATUS: UNMATED

CREATURE: HUMAN, WITCH.

 

It had taken Stiles six weeks to make himself understand that he’d nowhere else to go. He’d no idea where or who were his family or whether they still alive. Only then, they had given him his social security card, with his pendent, wallet, and tattered clothes. Before that, he’d name himself as Stiles. He liked it. Melissa said it suited his mysterious nature. Halflings were rare creatures and without his identify except for his name and few things essential he was indeed a mysterious. Even more so to himself, now that Stiles knew he was a born as Human, either of his parents were Witches. Both of his parents couldn’t have been Witches or he would have died instead of being turned. So when Stiles was fed Vampire blood—by someone unknown— and was killed after they had gone though the transition ritual, he turned into a Halfling.

 

“Genim Stilisnki.” Stiles muttered thoughtfully, slipping the card back into his wallet and he started to walk again looking forward towards his approaching destination with renewed determination. Stiles desperately wanted to find out about his family and for that he’d to steal the virus hidden somewhere in the Citadel that threatened the innocent lives in Beacon Hills Dome.

 

Stiles picked up pace as he turned off the main street. He kept checking behind him, looking out of any signs if someone followed him.

 

For months, Stiles had tried to remember. No memories rose from the fog that blocked his memory. The only thing he was certain of was the fact something bad had happened. Something that had stolen his memory and covered him blood.

 

Reaching at the bottom of the broad stairs, Stiles hesitated, tucking his hand into his pants pocket and looked up at the Beacon Citadel. He spied around to check if he’d invited any unwanted attention. Surprisingly, no one seemed to be paying much attention, ignoring Stiles in the oversized coat.

 

Clutching tighter to the bottle of pills in his pocket, madly gripping his lifeline, he took the first step.

 

For two days, he had taken one of those priceless pills every four hours like clockwork. Walking into what had once been a restricted area as he had read in books supplied to him by Melissa.

 

As he cautiously climbed the fifty odd steps, the ominous noises coming from inside the Citadel had Stiles heart racing so hard, he swore it felt as if the organ was going to tear out of his chest. The spicy scent of Alpha scent stung the night air, mingling uneasily with the reek of dried sweat and blood of the Resistant.

 

His mouth went dry, fangs itching to descend from the gum as hunger churned his stomach. Pausing for a moment, Stiles took deep breath that did little to calm him shot nerves and knelt on the step. The stone slab were cold and hard against his shins, but the chill that crept across his flesh had nothing to do with the icy night.

 

Stiles thought grimly he should have been saturated in the medication, his metabolism and hormones deceived into complacency. A week’s worth of food had been traded so he could make the climb up those steps without being torn into pieces.

 

Stiles was mortally terrified.

 

The urge to run away and move forward tore Stiles apart. He could feel the power of Nemeton, hidden somewhere beneath the Citadel, called for him. He could feel the sigils warming his skin and the undercurrent of the magic that linked every Otherworld creature to the sacred tree stump vibrated though him.

 

If his acute Halfling senses had any idea what he should be running from, they weren’t telling him. One thing was clear, he either had to go inside to do what he had come here for, despite his increasing fear or spend the rest night where he was knelt on the stair because Nemeton would not let him go, Stiles could feel it. Moreover walking back to the resistant camp after sunset meant death for an Omega like him.

 

Frantically rubbing the sigil on his wrist, Stiles rose to his feet taking forfeiting breathe as he did so before he quickly took the last few steps. He feared he might lose his nerves if he did not.

 

The roar of the monsters inside—the cheers and heckling as humans were stripped of their dignity and then stripped of their lives—turned his stomach, though the acid feeling may have been the side-effect of the drugs. Already sweating, grateful Emily and Joe—Omegas from the Resistant camp— had covered him in so many layers to hide his scent, Stiles took the smallest breaths tried not to gag from the stink of rotting corpse that became more prominent dulling the smell of blood and rich Alpha scent and walked into the madness.

 

Crossing the entrance was almost too easy. There was no hand gripping his shoulder to crease his movement, no barking _Otherworld Followers_ demanding Stiles state of business. In fact, the black craven seemed very willing to suck him in.

 

Over the threshold, the air was ripe with the scent of Alpha; a pungent mixture of aggressive Alpha and some of more violent Betas who had come to snarl and yip at whoever was the day’s entertainment.

 

Stiles’ breath caught somewhere in his throat and he clenched his gloved hands. If they wanted him, they were going to have to fight him. He’d be damned if he’d submit to their dominance willingly.

 

Cautiously Stiles crept inside, glancing around, eyes darting about taking in his surroundings. Birth titles littered the ground, parchment showing the tread where uncaring boots had trampled what had once signified a life; a tally of names that had been stricken from books. The scraps of paper were tossed away to mix with discarded flyers, wanted signs, and garbage.

 

The deeper he went, the more packed each chamber grew, filled by horde borne of citizens and the castoff Otherworld scum set free the day terror breached The Beacon Hills.

 

While he lived behind the heavily guarded barricades of the resistant camp, Stiles had only read and heard about all these brutality. However, seeing the ugly truth in all its nakedness almost crushed his determination.

 

Stiles knew who they were. They were _Evil_. He thought bitterly gritting his teeth. Creatures with the power to do as they pleased. Creatures _encouraged_ to do whatever they pleased

 

They were the thugs, the murders, the criminal, who once plagued the streets of Beacon Hills before throw in the Undercroft as a lifetime punishment. Now these criminals had taken up the banner of their Dome’s Alpha ruler, Deucalion.

Once known as Demon Wolf, for being vicious, merciless in battle, Deucalion who belonged to the werewolf race that dominated the Otherworld creatures, have had brought together the Human and Otherworld signing a peace treaty between the races.

 

Now the _Otherworld Followers_ who foolishly thought they were the crusaders of war against Demon Wolf, with power to do as they pleased, infiltrated the city, usurping the Demon Wolf’s Dome rule.

 

Over the millennia under human abuse, Earth had turned into a world beyond human scope, a world of impossibly high mountains where the air was too thin and polluted for humans to breathe and oceans full of creatures more fearsome than the nightmares of ancient earth mariners.

 

It was then the Dome culture came into existence, forcing the humans to barricade themselves in artificial atmosphere fortresses on the northern-most continent, where winter was long and dark, and summer was nothing more than a brief respite. The artificial atmosphere— _Dome_ — became the protective shield that encapsulated humans into an atmosphere, which was breathable and regulated the climate and temperature of the Dome.

 

Shaking his head, Stiles pulled himself out of his thoughts, knowledge he’d collected over the period of six months he’d lived with the Resistant. They had been nothing but Stiles’ support system helping him overcome his depression and grieving loss. For them he’d to do it. For their survival and freedom, Stiles would do it.

 

Even though Brigadier Chris Agent was using him, Stiles was not stupid to believe otherwise. If he failed, the Followers could kill him and no one would ever know it. It was a small price to pay for someone as lonely as Stiles. With his genetics, physical wounds would fade completely in a matter of hours; it was his insides he feared would remain altered.

 

But he wanted to live and the thought of dying scared him.

 

Living in the Omega shelter, Stiles had learned one thing. Life wasn’t about being selfish, it was about giving back to those who needed it or those who couldn’t protect themselves from the deadly creatures who wanted to feed off of them.

 

Stiles was in debited to the fellow Omegas in the camp and he’d vowed he’d get the virus but he wanted to kill two birds with a single stone.

 

Stiles had to be quick, knowing that if the jostling mob discovered what he was under the wrapped around him, he’d die horribly, and all the others left to starve.

 

Heart thudded harder, fear slipping through his defenses but full-blown terror remained elusive. Slippery like a silver fish, darting on the outskirts of his mind. It was there but fleeting, keeping him clear-headed and strong.

 

Stiles was grateful for that. Grateful that he maintained what dignity he had left—remaining strong even in the face of the unknown terrors lurking on the other side of room.

 

One foot after another, back pressed against the wall, eyes darting to and fro, Stiles skirted the crowd and prayed to remain unnoticed.

 

The male Stiles sought had reputation for standing where any could reach him; where all could see who held power, so challengers could be killed—if rumors held any truth— with his bare hands.

 

One could not have missed him if they tried.

 

The villain who had the audacity to call himself ‘the true Alpha’ was massive, the largest Alpha Stiles had ever seen. And not only that... the black colour glyphs. Whatever they were, they swirled over sun-darkened skin as if an extension of his wrongness—animalistic, unnatural; the intricacy of the patterns stretching from his neck to muscled arms, warning all who looked that the bearer was treacherous—not to be trusted.

 

Before the city had fallen, as Stiles had heard stories from many Omegas, those shifting back glyphs above ground had been highly illegal (as only witches could possesses such marks)—the punishment: execution.

 

The male Alpha was a convict of the Undercroft, the one who’d liberated the castoffs and he was the monsters responsible for suffering of the people and for the corpses piling in the streets of Beacon Hills.

 

Stiles swallowed, creeping nearer, choosing to look instead at the armored Follower the True Alpha nodded at; a glyph marked Beta, from the look of him. It was that man whose sharp blue eyes caught Stiles creeping nearer. Though diminutive was a gentle way to describe Stiles, from his expression, the Beta found him to be nothing... less than nothing. The Beta looked away, dismissing Stiles approach.

 

Rubbing the sigil on his wrist, his talisman against evil, Stiles walked straight up to the two conversing conquerors. Seeking the giant Alpha's attention, he fought for the words. "I need to speak with you, please."

 

The burly Alpha didn't even look at Stiles, blatantly ignoring him. "It's very important," he tried a little louder, the sincerity of his eyes, the desperation and overwhelming fear apparent.

How many times had this happened in his life? The total disregard, the blatant rejection... he tried to remember.

 

Stiles  released a frustrated sigh and gripping his wrist tightly socking up the much needed strength. Standing like a tree, a small sapling in a forest of redwoods, he waited and watched the Alpha. There was no way he was leaving until he'd spoken with the only person who might be able to save them.

 

The Alpha wanted to be leader, he wanted to rule... well, the citizens needed food. Pride had only lasted so long; deep down Stiles knew it would not keep them alive, so he'd come to the Alpha to ask for help.

 

Stiles had the mortifying experience to actually practice ways of seduction with Alphas in the camp. If nothing worked, he would seduce the surly Alpha coaxing him to his bedchamber. Then there using what little amount of magic Stiles had, he would put a spelling spell on the Alpha for the break and steal virus mission.

 

Eyes trained on the male, on the largest in the room—maybe in the world—Stiles waited for hours. It was hard to ignore what was taking place around him; the weeping of the once mighty reduced to sniveling wretches, dragged in to be _held accountable_. Stiles was unsure what they were being held accountable for. All he knew was that everyone unfortunate enough to be hauled to the Citadel was executed, regardless of begging, bribery, bloodlines... nothing mattered to the mob. Not even guilt.

It grew dark. Stiles remained, drawing in those same tiny breaths, holding his ground when all he wanted was to run screaming; pretend he had not just heard a stranger be sentenced to have his skin peeled off _so the world could see what he was made of underneath_. It had grown so late his sad bravery seemed pointless.

 

Not once had those pale green eyes turned towards him.

 

Not once.

 

Stiles had hoped his determination would draw the Alpha to at least glance his way as the follower had, giving him a chance to plead his case. Yet the longer he waited, the more his heart began to beat erratically. For a moment, he felt he might vomit from the smell—not just of his clothes, but of all the Alphas raging in the room—and drew out his pills. With the quickest speed he could manage, Stiles opened the lid of the bottle and pinched a little blue tablet between his forefinger and thumb. The gloved pinky hooked the dirty muffler, pulling it down just enough to get that pill between his lips. Once it hit his tongue, Stiles fought to create enough saliva to swallow.

 

It was jagged passing down his esophagus, made his cringe, gag and then groan when the feeling of it hitting a hollow stomach almost made the precious pharmaceutical come right back up. His fingers quickly readjusted the wool to cover as much of his skin as possible, pulling the reeking smell back over his nose and mouth... but then everything went wrong.

 

The very air altered and a shot of instinctual fear was the precursor of his greatest nightmare. It was the Alpha, suddenly went unnaturally still. Stiles could hear the bones crack in the Alpha’s neck as he turned his head a few more degrees in his direction. Regal as if this was his castle and Stiles was the latest subject.

 

Their eyes locked.

 

The Alpha’s eyes flashed crimson. A chill darted down Stiles’ spine, the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he sucked in a shocked breath.

 

Fear? Terror?

 

Something inside him knew the Alpha was dangerous.

 

He wasn’t a fat, repulsive bastard who wanted to conquer the world and turn humans into his slaves. He wasn’t gross or any other monstrous things.

 

 _Who_ is _this male?_

 

Stiles’ eyes widened, drinking him in—He had to be a male model with his height, Stiles thought surprising himself. Envious cheekbones, and short salt-and-pepper fohawk hair. His tanned skin was flawless—no wrinkles or blemishes.

 

The Alpha looked ageless, but Stiles guessed he was late twenties, early thirties despite his greying hair speaking of wisdom far beyond his years. The clenched jaw, straight nose, and full lips. His five-o’clock stubble held remnants of war, streaked with dirt and blood. But it was his eyes that shot a quivering arrow into Stiles’ heart, spreading his emerald anger.

 

Sweating profusely, feeling so ill, Stiles spoke the instant he knew he’d the desired attention. "I must speak to you," he said, voice hitching from panicked breaths.

 

The Alpha had killed so many people. Even through the fabric around his face, Stiles could smell him; more potent than the others, for certain. But the look in his eyes was far more frightening than the Glyph markings; hard, unforgiving green seemed to see right through Stiles, shredding away the disguise.

Suddenly the back of his palm felt warm beneath the glove. It was an unnatural feeling as the skin there always felt dead.

 

Shoulders drooping, Stiles felt a rush, a burning scratch in his stomach that turned into painful cramping, total terror left in its wake.

 

Everything had been for nothing.

 

Sucking in a ragged breath, swaying as if his legs could not decide which way to run, Stiles whispered under his breath, "No... no, no, this can't be happening."

 

Somehow, all the preparations, the pills, had not been enough. Stiles though gnashing his teeth as his eyes darted around in alarm. There were too many Alphas, too much of their scent in the air, and he had gone directly into heat. Already he could feel the slick gathering between his legs, the smell of it, of something so laced with pheromones that it would not be masked by the horrid stench he'd purposely dressed in.

 

All those hours he'd thought it had been lack of food, the stink of rotting things, and the weight of the cloak… he'd stood there in the wolves' den like an idiot while the signs had been building: nausea, racing heart, fever... and the biggest wolf of all was staring straight at him. Stiles tingled with a desire so powerful, it overrode his current situation and the fear dancing on the outskirts of his brain

 

Stiles finally had the Alpha’s attention, and now it was worthless. He was already becoming delirious, panicked, his voice cracking and accusing all at once, "I just needed to speak with you. I only needed a minute."

 

His heart pumped and tricked beneath the Alpha’s careful scrutiny. That urge was making him tremble and prepare to flee, but there was already a commotion all around. Stiles’ lips parted as fingers of magnetic awareness drew them tighter and tighter and _tighter_ together.

 

The Alpha’s nostrils flared before he sniffed the air as if he tasted the air—unraveling Stiles’ secrets by scent alone—and Stiles whipped out his dagger without hesitation shuffling back, his alarmed eyes darting around to find few of the males were sniffing the air too.

 

_Shit!_

 

The Alpha countered Stiles’ mincing retreat, facing full on, staring at him with the narrowed, focused eyes of a predator.

It was his attention—the attention Stiles had needed to save the Humans—that drew other eyes in the room.

 

More of that damn fluid began to drip down Stiles’ legs, saturating the fabric of his clothing, signalling that a rare Omega had appeared out of the blue, and that he was broadcasting a heat cycle.

 

Stiles took another step back, bumping against the guard stood behind. The hand with the dagger was immediately grabbed and twisted behind the back until Stiles cried out. Stiles struggled to get a way but the guard’s vice-like grip yanked his arm and shoved it up, causing Stiles to scream in pain and drop the dagger.

 

Stiles felt the gaud bent his head, “Wrong move Omega.” whispering menacingly in his ear. The coldness in the gaud’s tone sent icicles shimmering in the air. Another ooze of fear slithered through Stiles blood. He froze, heart pounding beneath the rib. Amber eyes wide with terror peered over the shoulder glancing at the blue-eyed gaud.

 

 There would be a riot, a bloodbath as they pulled at Stiles... probably mounting him like a breeding machine right there on that dirty marble floor.

 

Stiles hissed when another cramping waved and doubled over slapping his palm over the Beta’s arm on his belly, seeking support to stay upright. He head the Beta’s groan, the hand on the belly moved to the chest and another gripped Stiles’ hip before he widened his stance and jerked Stiles back.

 

Despite himself, Stiles trembled and bit his bottom lips stifling the moan that bubbled in the throat. Eyes clenched shut in mortification  Stiles cursed his twisting stomach and the fire-bolt to his core as his ass arched in response rubbing against Beta’s arousal though the clothes. Desire flared in his gut, prickling his skin and warming him everywhere.

 

“Jackson!” A roar came from somewhere.

 

“Fuck.” Beta guard named Jackson growled cursed near Stiles’ears gruffly . Stlies’ head whirled, eyes peeled open on a whine of protest when Jackson jerked himself back and whacked the base of his spine. The hard pain shoved his forward. Wobbliness hit him and he stumbled into someone chest. Tight grasping hands clutched at his arm.

 

 Stiles head shook his head rearing to look up at the male.

Another male Alpha wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. His greasy skin shone with sweat, and he had a chunk missing from the top of his ear. Long, stringy hair hung over a gaunt face. Their eyes locked for a moment. It was like looking into a predators gaze: empty, hungry, black, and evil.

 

“Hello Omega.”

 

Stiles’ stomach flipped, kicking out trepidation and blowing it into full-fledged fright. He couldn’t stay. He screamed, and the frenzy began.

 

He needed to run.

_Run!_

Boots slapped against dirty marble floor as he bolted.

The males scrambled into action, knocking over whatever came in the wat in the rush to chase him.

_No. No. Please, no._

He hyperventilated as he ducked and dodged past the males his feet sprinting, powering to take him towards his freedom. Blood rocketed with adrenaline, his eyes darted around the chamber, looking for the escape door.

 

 He creamed as a large hand fisted his hair yanking backward into a stinking hot torso.

 

“NO! Let me go! Let me GOOO!” he twisted and hissed as the male lifted him off the his feet. Ignoring the burn of torn hair, Stiles turned into something rabid. Dropping the fangs he bit (though the scarf) the male’s arm that banded across his chest.

 

The male swore in some foreign language, dropping him. Stiles fell to his knees, but was running a second later. Nothing mattered but getting. Jumping to his feet Stiles tried to back away eyes trained on the fitly hungry creatures as they advanced in on him.

 

Alphas, wolf or human were dominant; they had an animal need to mate an Omega in heat. Self-control; they possessed that, too... but not the monsters that were in that room. Not the kind of males and female who were attracted to the giant Alpha’s cause. Not what the Alphas in Beacon Hills had become since that bastard descended upon them.

 

A howl so deafening that Stiles fought of the grabbing hand to cover his ears as the sound shook him to the bone. There was the sound of a struggle, gunfire. Stiles instinctively folded to the ground curling into himself.

 

He would be raped to death, could already feel someone tearing at his clothes, as he stayed curled. The body's response, Stiles could not prevent. The snarls and barks only drew out more slick, made him crave to be mounted... but not by anything that was crawling in that chamber.

 

Fighting his body response, forcing his body to straighten so he could do more than yank away from clutching hands, Stiles opened his eyes, his hand reach up to yank the muffler down so he could reveal his fangs and snap at him. But he stopped realising how danger it could be if he smelled the Alpha. He would lose his control over his body. So he stared to shuffle back cautiously, flexing his fingers and chanting only one spell he knew. Magic rose inside  _him_ , diffusing some of the surrounding  _power like invisible tendrils_. He felt his pupils pulse in his eye and creep outward until they dominated his irises and _power shimmered_  through his veins like wildfire. Briefly looking down Stiles saw how the (invisible to other occupants of the room) magical glowing tendrils unfurled and interlocked with the vein-y looking glowing roots of Nemeton flowing beneath his feet.

 

Stiles could feel magic pulsed though the tether flowing into him causing him to shiver a little. He was little too absorbed in summoning his innate magic not taking notice of his surroundings and the thugs around him. Suddenly a male lunged out of the crowd with an earthquake roar.

 

Complete black eyes snapped up focusing on. Wrenching the glove off Stiles flung out one _hand_ , fingers splayed without another thought. A bust of power shot out of his open palm sending his assailant sailing though mid-air and crushed onto few guards who tried to catch him to the ground.

 

This caused the advancing assailants to pause; the male had enclosed him into a circle. Their growly pants were as hungry as their look in his eyes.

 

 _Breathing heavily_ , face was covered with a sheen of sweat, Stiles stared at the unconscious male at a distance while trying to catch  _his breath_. The other males beneath the fallen one grunted and flipped him off of them before one by one they soared to their feet.

 

Stiles scanned their face, seeing the Alpha had begun to inch towards him more cautiously. He would have laughed at the frustration etched on their scrowly face if he wasn’t occupied searching for the Alpha. He schemed his escape with anew urgency feeling his energy draining out of him with each slowing beat of his heart. The magic ebbing and his eyes turning to its normal state.

 

They would chase him, his lust-ridden brain supplied. Alphas were stronger, fast, and being that Stiles was surrounded, one would catch him. At least he had tried. Stiles was unprepared to see the amount of bodies already littering the ground. The sight of so many broken males made him freeze, and that was all he needed.

 

He felt utterly exhausted, defeated, and empty to core. His vision glazed over with unshed tears. He held out a shaking, imploring hand and dropped  _heavily_  to  _his knees_ when he saw another male taller with dark chocolate complex and bulkier than the giant did, charged towards him. The beast snarled like a savage, eyes glowing Beta golden, mouth full of deadly fangs and clawed hand flew out to struck and kill.

 

Suddenly a  _muscular arm wrapped around his waist_ in a vise-like-grip, jerking him backward, trapping him against a body that felt like stone. Stiles breath whooshed from his lungs and instantly his fangs punctured out of his gum behind the muffler.

 

Before he could pull in enough air to scream, Stiles felt sharp tips of claw prickled around his throat, and he was carted off, hanging doubled over, by the swaggering pace of a male staking claim... of the victor of the battle. The room still echoed with snarls and shouting, but more so, the pained moans of the few on the ground who were lucky enough to be alive.

 

Combat boots and familiar armor, all looking as if they'd been cobbled together from scraps, encased thick thighs.

 

The Alpha.

 

Praising Joe for the horrible stinking scarf  he'd prepared, Stiles fought himself—fought his instinct to smell him—and did his best to repeat a mantra that felt familiar, like he’d used it before...many times. _"Only instincts."_

Stiles had to speak to the Alpha, had to fight the baser urges.

_Do you think he will fight his?_

The thought made Stiles sag, an action no doubt was taken as submission by the Alpha and not its counterpart, despair.

 

Stiles lost track of the distance or direction the Alpha had taken him; only noticed the dimness and the strange feeling of being underground. Over and over in his head he prepared what must be said, promising himself he would say it. Even if the Alpha was rutting, he would say it.

 

Even if he would kill Stiles, he would say it and I locked himself in his mind, remembering a memory he knew belong from his past.

 

_I’ll miss you so much,” she sniffed, hugging Stiles tighter._

_“I’m not dying, you know.” he tried to untangle himself, looking over his shoulder at the waiting cab by the curb. He needed to hurry up. His dad was waiting for him._

_“Call me the moment you get there.”_

_“Promise.” he drew a cross over his heart—_

 

The memory shattered as his horizontal body suddenly went vertical in one swoop. Who was that girl? Like many times before, Stiles again asked himself. Why did he have no memory of it ever happening?

 

A door was pulled on thick metal hinges, whined the way he imagined the doors would in the old world submarines he'd read about in books, and they entered a room.

 

Every inhalation, even through the reeking muffler, was saturated in the Alpha—in the heady musk of the prime Alpha. Pressing his hand to his mouth and nose, Stiles felt his body writhe against his will, and focused again on the small shallow breaths of control.

 

Lowered to the floor, his body convulsed in another cramp, drawing out a pained groan as he clutches his belly curled into himself

 

Stiles wanted—no, _needed_ —to press his hands between his legs. But the smell of rotting flesh was turning his stomach, just as much as the delicious smell of the Alpha's den was driving him insane.

 

With words made bleary with craving, sentences broken up by little grunts, Stiles fought past the overwhelming desire to spread his legs and grind. "We are starving. The Omegas need food. I have been sent to ask you to arrange a safe place where we can procure our portion before we all die."

 

Stiles watched the Alpha bolt the door with a rod so thick it dwarfed Stiles’ ankle, trapping him, cornering the Omega for mating. Unsure if the Alpha had heard, Stiles used his feet to scoot away from the male until his back hit the wall and tried again. "Food… we can't go out... hunted, forced. They're killing us." His blown pupils looked up at the intimidating male and pleaded for him to understand. "You are _the_ Alpha in Beacon Hills, you hold control... we have no one else to ask."

 

"So you foolishly walked into a room full of feral Alphas to ask for food?" He was mocking Stiles, his eyes mean even as he grinned.

The horror of the day, the sexual frustration of the heat, made Stiles belligerently raise his head and meet the emerald eyes. "If we don't get food, I'm dead anyway."

 

Seeing Stiles grimace through another cramping wave, the Alpha growled, an instinctual reaction to a breeding Omega. The noise shot right between Stiles’ legs, full of the promise of everything he needed.

 

His second, louder grumbled noise sang inside Stiles, and a wave of warm slick drenched the floor below his swollen sex, saturating the air to entice him.

 

Stiles could not take it. "Please don't make that noise."

 

"You are fighting your cycle," he grunted low and abrasive, beginning to pace, watching Stiles all the while.

 

Shaking his head back and forth, Stiles began to murmur, "I've lived a life of celibacy."

 

Celibacy? That was unheard of...a rumored story. Omegas could not fight the urge to mate. That was why the Alphas fought for them and forced a pair-bond to keep them for themselves. The smell alone drove any Alpha into a rut.

 

He growled again and the muscles of Stiles sex clenched so hard he whined and curled up on the floor.

 

It was hard enough to make it through heat locked in a room alone until the cycle broke, but that damn noise and the smell invading past the rotting stickiness of his clothing was breaking his insides apart.

 

The degrading way the Alpha spoke made Stiles open his eyes to see the beast standing still, his massive erection apparent despite layers of clothing. "How long does your heat typically last, Omega?"

 

Shivering, suddenly loving the sound of that lyrical rasp, Stiles clenched his fists at his sides instead of beckoning the Alpha nearer. "Four days, sometimes a week."

 

"And you have been through them all in seclusion instead of submitting to an Alpha to break them?"

 

"Yes." He was making Stiles angry, furious even, with the stupid questions. Every part of him was screaming out that the Wolf should be stroking him and easing the need. _That it was his job_! With his hand still pressed over his nose and mouth, Stiles muffled, broken explanation came as a jumbled, angry rant, hissing, "I choose."

 

The wolf just laughed; a cruel, coarse sound.

 

Omegas had become exceptionally rare since the plagues and the following Reformation Wars a century prior. That made them a valuable commodity, which Alphas in power took as if it was their due.

 

In a city brimming with aggressive Alphas like Beacon, Stiles'd been trapped in a life with no memory to say if he was ever courted by someone. The last ten months, Stiles had spent a small fortune on heat-suppressants, and locked himself away with the other few celibates he knew when heat came.

 

 Stiles’d heard the Omegas in the camp talking about their heat cycles, that they used to hide in plain sight before the Alpha Wolf’s army sprung out of the Undercroft and the government was slaughtered, their corpses left strung up from the Citadel like trophies.

Emily and Joe had told Stiles, they both had been forced into hiding the very next day, when the unrest inspired the lower echelons of population to challenge for dominance. Where there had been order, suddenly all Beacon knew was anarchy. Those awful Alpha just took any Omega they could find; killing mates and children in order to keep the lesser gender—to breed them or fuck until they died.

"What is your name?"

 

Stiles opened his eyes, elated the Wolf was listening. "Stiles."

 

"How many of you are there, little one?"

 

Trying to focus on a spot on the wall instead of the large male and where his beautiful engorged dick was challenging the zipper of the leather trousers, Stiles turned his head to where his body craved to nest, staring with hunger at the collection of colorful blankets, pillows—a bed where everything must be saturated by the Alpha scent.

 

An extended growl warned, "You are losing your impressive focus, little one. How many?"

 

Stiles’ voice broke. "Less than a hundred... We lose more every day." It was a lie. The unrest had affected the Omegas the hardest.

 

"You have not eaten. You're hungry." It was not a question, but spoken with such a low vibration that the Wolf’s hunger for _him_ was apparent.

 

"Yesss." It was almost a whine. Stiles was so near to pleading, and it wasn't going to be for food.

 

The prolonged answering growl of the beast compelled a gush of slick to wet him so badly, Stiles was sitting in a slippery puddle. Doubling over, frustrated and needy, he sobbed, "Please don't make that noise," and immediately the growl changed pitch. The Wolf began to purr for him.

 

There was something so infinitely soothing in that low rumble that Stiles sighed audibly and did not bolt at the Wolf’s slow, measured approach. His hand with bruised knuckles opened and closed by his muscular thighs. The unnatural tautness of  _his_  pecs moved in an elaborate interplay of flexes when he breathed, the  _veins visible_  underneath. Violence wisping around him like an aura.

 

Even when the Wolf crouched down low, he towered over Stiles, all bulging muscle and intoxicating musky sweat.

Stiles tried to say the words, " _Only instincts..."_ but jumbled them so badly their meaning was lost.

Starting with the scarf, the Wolf unwound the items that tainted the Omegas beautiful pheromones, purring and stroking every time he whimpered or shifted nervously.

When he pulled him forward to take away the reeking cloak, Stiles eyes drew level with the confined erection. His uncovered upturned nose sniffed automatically at the place where his trousers bulged. In that moment all he wanted, all that he had ever wanted, was to be fucked, knotted, and bred by the Alpha.

_Only instincts..._

 

The Wolf pressed his face to the Omega’s neck and sucked in a long breath, groaning as his cock jumped and began to leak more to please the Omega. He had gone into the rut, there was no changing that fact, and with it came a powerful need to see the Omega filled with seed; to soothe what was driving him to rub against his own hand in such a frenzy.

The words were almost lost in Stiles’ breath, "You need to lock me in a room for a few days..."

 

A feral grin spread. "You are locked in a room, little one, with the Alpha who killed ten men and two of his sworn Followers to bring you here." The Wolf stroked his hair, petting him and it calmed him a little. "It's too late now. Your defiant celibacy is over. Either you submit willingly to me where I will rut you through your heat, or you may leave out that door where my men will, no doubt, mount you in the halls once they smell you."

A knock came. The Wolf rose up tall before Stiles, staring down with open demand that he submit and obey. Dominance established, he went to the door and pulled back the lock. Stiles saw the same soldier, the smaller Beta with the far too vibrant blue eyes, and found him sniffing the air in Stiles’ direction, growing openly excited at the intoxicating blend of pheromones his slick and sweat were pumping into the air.

 

The Wolf was right. He had taken Stiles from what would have been a mass rape, saved him from damage and most likely death. He'd listened, though he had not answered Stiles, and males were already salivating in the hall. The understanding of the situation passed openly across his face. Stiles nodded, heat clouding his judgment.

 

Something was muttered between the males, ending in, "...only Betas on guard."

 

A tray was handed over, laden with food, another armful piled with bedding and pillows, and Stiles went white. They had already known the Alpha Wolf would have him, and had prepared accordingly. The little chat had no purpose but to make Stiles think he had a choice. The Wolf saw his expression and the rumble of his purring returned.

 

Stiles had to eat... the Alpha had to feed the Omega before it began. The tray was set on the floor where Stiles was crouched, then the Alpha ordered loud enough to grab his attention away from the bulge in the Alpha’s pants. "Eat."

 

As Stiles picked at the unseen food, the Alpha began to undress. All armor, every under-layer, was carefully removed and organized, the man having no shame about the state of his Glyphs marked body or the jutting cock proudly on display. But more than the visual, it was the smell—the scent of a rutting Alpha, aroused and swollen for an Omega—that made reason completely flee Stiles’ mind. Everything hummed in that incessant purr, reminding him that the Alpha was what his body needed, and he was salivating for it... even if he was scared.

 

The Alpha Wolf began to pace, naked, rolling his shoulders as he prowled, all the while watching Stiles and sniffing the air over and over. "Eat more... drink the water."

Voice downright nasty, threatening, Stiles hissed as if the Alpha should have known Omegas could not eat during heat, "I don't want food!"

No, Stiles wanted the thing that was supposed to happen. The Wolf was supposed to be fucking him. Why was he waiting? Stiles came to him feet and the Wolf was there, the dominant male growling so loud his eyes rolled back in the skull.

A rending of fabric preceded cool air over fevered skin.

He was all around Stiles, tugging away unnecessary things like clothing. The smell of him, the raw sweat, sent his cunt to seeping.

 

*********

 

Sucking in great panting breaths of the fertile Omega, Derek sought out to stroke uncovered flesh, a bit surprised all his body hair had been permanently removed—recognizing the precaution the Omega had taken to help mask his scent.

Derek realised the Omega was so far gone, his little tongue already licking at his skin, completely high on the taste and smell. That when Derek finger his swiped drops of the leaking pre-come to run over those pouty pink lips, the Omega moaned loudly and sucked it deep into his mouth.

 

The Omega...Stiles, Derek reminded himself the named, was so small compared to his mass, easy to move where he wanted. Carrying the Omega to the bed, Derek gently laid the boy on the mattress. Then Derek himself kneeled between the boy’s slender spread legs, staring down at the river of slick that came forth. Little pink lips were spread, the swollen glans of his cock lined up where the boy seemed far too small to accept an organ so large. With one hand on the boy’s chest, petting the twisting thing,  Derek pressed forward, breaching the slippery womb, and gave a full body shudder at the sound of the boy’s desperate cry.

Stiles had not lied... he was so tight it made his cock pulsate more fluid to aid him. Derek only got halfway before the Omega began to whine and squirm. Alphas were big and Derek was huge, his girth massive, and there was only so much space inside his body.

"Open for me, little one," Derek rasped, using his thumbs to stretch his lower lips further apart, thrusting forward, gaining hard earned inch by inch while the boy watched Derek slowly disappear between her legs.

 

When the expanding thrust bottomed out, when all his tightness enveloped that hard length... utter bliss. Stiles needed it, was moaning and arching, grinding his sex against the Wolf’s pubic bone. The stretch was divine; the vibration from his purrs, the _smell_. When the Wolf began to pull out, Stiles showed his fangs and snarled at a man many times his size. It only seemed amused Derek, and then snapped his hips, burying that massive cock to the hilt, knowing the Omega would squeal.

 

Stiles learned quickly that the Wolf liked his little spurts of temper, but it was _him_ who dominated the exchange. Derek rutted with the vigor Stiles needed, hard and fast, building up that furious pulse in him core.

When he began to roll his hips, eyes closed and lost in the insatiable need to mate, the Wolf took him by the scruff of the neck and barked to open, to look at the Alpha fucking him, to recognize his prowess.

 

Those harshly snarled words sent him over the edge. Perfect fulfillment exploded. Stiles felt every single muscle in his pussy jump to life, saw the Wolf’s eyes flash crimson, grow vicious and feral, felt his knot expand as he ground in, hooking behind Stiles’ pelvic bone, locking them as deep as he could go. Jerking under the intensity of the orgasm, Stiles felt that first hot gush of semen, heard the Wolf roar like a beast while Stiles himself screamed. The Wolf came again, more of that copious fluid, Stiles body's need finally met, and with his third liquid surge he blacked out.

 

It could not have been long before Stiles woke, as his knot was still binding their bodies together. But the Wolf had shifted them. He lay below Stiles. Stiles body sprawled on top, ear to his heart. The serenity from the mating was fading and the impulse to fuck was back again. The urge, the only thing that defined Stiles at that moment, grew beyond his when his tongue darted out to lick the salt of sweat from the Wolf’s chest, to entice the glyphic male to begin again.

 

The instant the knot began to diminish Stiles registered the loss of precious fluid, felt the seed leaking out of him, and whined. As if knowing his thoughts, the Wolf dragged his fingers in the little river and brought his ejaculate to Stiles’ mouth. The smell alone drove him wild, the taste a thousand times more.

"They would have broken an Omega so small." The Wolf watched, fascinated, as Stiles greedily sucked his fingers, explaining quietly as if educating a Omega who should have known better, "Not shown restraint at a scent so overpowering."

Stiles didn't want him to talk; he wanted him to fuck again. A large hand came to his hair, rubbing at the scalp, soothing him with pets and purrs while the knot slowly abated so he could thrust against Stiles’ jerking hips.

The second mating was much less frantic, far more fulfilling, and when he had filled him again, Stiles began to lose the edge that was making him so ferocious. It was his hands, maybe, lifting and lowering at the tempo that made Stiles’ cunt sing, or the look in his eyes, the unabashed lustful pleasure.

 _So that's what it was like to mate an Alpha_.

The Wolf seemed to know his thoughts, and by the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, Stiles could tell he was amused with him. He cupped Stiles’ face, tender and gentle. It didn't feel overpowered or forced...

It felt mistakenly safe in the delirium.

It was not until a day later, when the Wolf took Stiles from behind at the peak of heat, his full weight on his back, that Stiles sensed trouble. The high had not faded, the slow building fervor of the heat nowhere near breaking... but the Wolf roared, began to squeeze and bruise; to restrain.

Fighting the hold, writhing, Stiles had a sobering fear the tyrant might bite him so savagely it would scar—that he intended to leave claiming marks.

Worst of all, instinctively, Stiles wanted him to. The heat-high mind wanted to bond to the monster that had destroyed Beacon Hill and made Stiles life hell, simply because he was the one who was fucking him.

"And you will!" he growled in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles told him no, panting it over the sound of his skin slapping against the fleshy mounds of his ass.

Sharp teeth came to his tender shoulder, the knot growing bulbous until the Alpha could no longer thrust, and Stiles could not squirm away. He screamed in pain and pleasure, sobbing as the sharp jagged teeth ripped into his skin, the Wolf growling long and low with his flesh torn from the bite.

Stiles climaxed from the claiming, rhythmically squeezing, drawing the jets of fluid from his dick while the Wolf crooned at him, and lapped up the blood.

 

Stiles cried even as the Wolf purred and petted, wept from the hazy recognition of the total loss of control he'd so carefully cultivated in his ten months of life. When ten minutes later his body sent out signals it was time for the Wolf to fuck him again, the Wolf pulled Stiles beneath him and was gentle; caressing the boy he'd stolen even though his tears fell throughout the whole coupling.

 

When it was over, when he had wrung out another explosion that chased away the urge of chemical madness, a calm descended on them both. Stiles briefly slept against a man he did not even know the name, pressing as close as he could, in the exact place the brute expected him to rest.

 

In the end, it took three days to break the starving Omega's heat. Stiles was sleeping, nesting deep into the blankets covered in Alpha’s semen and his own slick—blissed out. Toying with a strand of his hair black hair, the Wolf mulled over just what to do with what was now his possession, impressed that the little male was plucky enough to dress in corpses' clothes and parade into a pack of Alphas just to speak to him. Moreover, he would have died if the Wolf had not found his scent worth killing for. Even more so remembering the way Stiles defended himself and the impressive sigils covering his lithe body indicating the smaller male was a Witch turned to a Halfling.

 

Stiles would also be sore now that heat had ended and his mind would not be clouded with the insatiable drive to mate. The Wolf was certain the Omega would also be resentful of the binding he'd forced. But that was the lot for Omegas, the way of nature. The Wolf wanted Stiles, he took. End of story.

 

Green eyes ran over the lithe dancer's body he possessed, the Alpha growling at the obvious fact his Omega was underfed. It was getting him into such a mood that when a knock came to the door, he covetously grabbed what was his and roared.

 

The commotion—being jerked against a mountain of heat—woke Stiles, and he hissed in discomfort. Everything felt sticky, an Alpha pawing over bruises that did not appreciate the attention. The words the Alpha spat were in another language—an outskirts' lost tongues, Stiles assumed.

 

Remembering who the Alpha was and what he'd done to him, Stiles pushed away from the Alpha chest, only to feel the larger muscular arms grow impossibly constrictive. The conversation between the Follower on the other side of the door and his captor stretched on, along with the tightening the grip each time he squirmed.

 

When it was over, the Alpha swung his head Stiles’ way, barking, "You sleep now." It was not a suggestion and Stiles could clearly sense he was provoked.

 

"The Omegas." That was the reason he had come to him... not to have him knot him for three full days.

Hazel eyes with golden flecks diminished between narrowed lids. The Wolf sniffed Stiles once, then he growled, "Your assumption it would be plausible to have a private distribution of provisions is flawed. It would draw attention to your group. All Omegas will be delivered into my care and segregated from the population in the Undercroft. Any come into heat, an Alpha will be chosen from amongst my followers. Most will be bonded at their next cycle."

 

"What? No!" Stiles’ voice was pure horror as he shook his head in protest. God Lord what was happening? Omegas were secured for now, they didn’t need anything. "That's not what we want. They need food, not to be turned into slaves."

 

"This is best. You are Omegas, fragile, and not your place to decide such things."

 

Stiles refrained himself from retorting that he had already knocked down Alpha’s ass in the Chamber outside. Everything about the male was suddenly repulsive. Stiles wanted him off of him and tried to scoot away. "I won't tell you where they are."

 

As he smirked, a scar across his lips made the expression sinister. "Then they starve and picked off one by one. That is your decision, little one. If given to me they would be protected."

 

"From whom? The very Alpha who are raping and knotting Omega’s who have not reached maturity are the same you surround yourself with."

 

The Wolf was petting him, touching his hair as if Stiles were not upset, as if he didn't loathe him in that moment, and it was setting him into a temper. When he tried to bat that big hand away, the Wolf snarled and pinned Stiles beneath him. His teeth went to the crook of Stiles’ neck and he sniffed, growling at the sweetness while using his muscular thigh to pry Stiles’ legs apart.

Stiles felt the beast’s cock pulsing against his belly and grew frightened. There was no heat, no abundant slick, and he was sore.

 

It seemed the Wolf didn't care as if he was reminding Stiles who was dominant in one sharp thrust, taking Stiles with no purrs or caresses.

 

“No! Let me _go_!” Stiles screamed, too angry and focused on survival to have sex. He squirmed and struggled. “Fucking bastard, leave me the _fuck_ alone!”

 

Predatory eyes immediately fell on Stiles. Fear sprinted through Stiles’ blood, flaring his aching body as the Wolf wrested with Stiles protesting hands pinning them over his head. “Obey me little Omega.” He snarled circled his  _hips_ and _grinding_  into Stiles until he sobbed aloud.

 

Breathing hard, rushed, and ragged, Stiles’ entire body wanted to weep, and tears began to slip from the corners of his eyes. Stiles squeezed his eyes, rolling his head to the side. Gritting his teeth at the burn in his pussy, he willed myself to leave the place, to float and disappear, but the Wolf kept fucking him and kept him anchored in despair. His fight deflated after sometime, leaving under an avalanche of unhappiness and growing lust. Every part hurt: his heart, body, and soul both in good and bad way. The duality of his own feels and sensations confused him. Stiles was sucked deep into the pit where snakes and monsters lived, wallowing in self-pity.

 

The Wolf’s eyes flashed as Stiles rocked, wrapping his hands and legs around him. He groaned as Stiles thrust unashamedly, providing much needed friction.

 

Cupping Stiles’ buttocks, Derek angled Stiles’ hips higher, so that every deep thrust rubbed the root of his cock against his throbbing clit. The sound of skin slapping against skin. Their lustful groans and grunts filled the grey walled chamber.

 

Stiles cried out as his pussy contracted, thrumming with its own heartbeat. He thrashed, trying to get closer, trying to get away. _I want more. I can’t handle_ _more_. His mind broke completely, ruled by the need to come. “Fuck me, Alpha. Fuck me. I can’t… I can’t stand it.”

 

 “Understand it now.” The Wolf growled. “You cannot not need me. You’ll always need me.”

 

Before Stiles could answer, it seemed the Wolf became more determine to prove his statement. Baring his teeth, he lassoed one arms around Stile’s waist hiking him up and began pounding into him. There was no rocking, or gentle lovemaking. He pistoned hips into Stiles’, grunting, sweating, a crazed look in his eye.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles pressed his face into the Wolf neck as he bounced in his strong arms. The room erupted with the sounds of heavy breathing and slapping sweaty skin. The air temperature was too hot. The Wolf was too much. Stiles’ body couldn’t handle the sensory overload. _Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m coming…_

 

The build-up of the release rose and rose, never peaking. Fear laced with need. _Too intense_. Stiles didn’t think he’d survive it.

 “Alpha, please…” Stiles begged, a single tear slid out from his closed eyes.

 

The Wolf stiffened with power, thrusting as his eyes flared crimson and lips parted. “I’ll give you what you need.” His body convulsed and a low angry groan ripped from his throat when his knot slipped inside Stiles’ canal. A hot pulse of semen filled and that was all Stiles needed. He combusted.

 

Every atom in his body detonated and fired. His pussy fisted around the knot and he screamed. The Wolf mouth latched onto his neck, biting. Stiles transcended from his mere mortal body, riding wave after wave of eye-popping, brain-splintering euphoria.

 

The wolf grunted, grinding in time to Stiles’ release; teeth never let up on his collarbone and a slick trail of blood trickled from his throat where he bit. Some primal part of Stiles’ brain went wild. He loved that the Wolf needed him so bad, broke his skin. Stiles loved how delicate his tongue was, lapping up his essence.

 

Panting for breath, Stiles fell back onto the mattered taking the wolf with him as exhaustion made his limps go numb. When they seemed to have caught their breath, the welcome press of the wolf mouth came to Stile’s ear. "You sleep now."

 

Derek’s strong fingers went back to combing though Stiles’ hair while Stiles cried himself beyond exhaustion, embraced by a man who lived up to his reputation as a monster.

 

Stiles skin stung then screamed as shard wolf fangs punctured his skin. “Fuck!” he bucked; the wolf groaned as he came again. His tongue lapped the wound, saliva stinging with sweat as he began to purr.

Stiles didn’t struggle. He didn’t protest. Or cry.

 

He simply closed his eyes, ignored the pulsing and spurting knot in his cunt, and just lay as the wolf blanketed him with his steel-hard body and warmth.

 

“Why are you being so cruel?” Stiles mumbled after a while when silence became too much. Tears pressed and topsy-turvy emotions flicked from lust to lusty hate. “You raped me and bonded with me without my consent. Why would you do that?” he could never make up his mind which feeling was true when it came to the Wolf. One moment, Stiles thought, he might be able to give the Wolf what he needed, be the slave Omega if that got him something more in return—if he could get the virus. Other times, Stiles wanted the wolf dead.

 

The Wolf reared back, propping himself on his elbow and looking with temper. Stiles heart stuttered, and then raced erratically. He was full of personalities tonight; Stiles could not keep up.

The wolf muttered,  “ _Así que dejen de pelear conmigo. Porque voy a hacerte mío. Créase o no, mi pequeño.”_

 

Stiles’ stomach twisted and his mouth went dry. Despite not understanding, what were those said words meant, it made him feel strange, kind of a threat but delivered during thrones of pleasure. Their eyes locked and Stiles couldn’t look away. His skin prickled; his heart moves to his throat and started a low pace. When the Wolf looked at Stiles like that—as if Stiles were the only thing of importance in this world—the bond inside stretched and strengthened.

 _Who_ _was_ _he?_

He played havoc with Stiles’ willpower—his common sense.

Stiles whispered. “What’s your name?”

 

The Wolf brushed his lips against Stiles’ ever so sweetly, as he murmured his answer. “Derek... Alpha Derek.”

 

_Derek!_

 

It somewhat sounded familiar.

 

Stiles gaze dropped to the broad expanse of the Wolf---Derek’s chest, marred with spares soft looking curls as he thought hard. _His_ name…Derek Hale. He waited for it to jog a memory. Nothing.

 

“And what did you say in your native language.” he found himself asking, throat feeling strangely raw.

 

“I spoke Spanish.” Derek said. “Never heard before?”

 

His disjointed English answer made Stiles shake his head mildly. He had never heard of such language. In Bio-Dome culture people spoke in two languages. English was for the lower working class and used as mass language and Latin for more educated and upper class people, such as bureaucrats and influential people of the society.

 

“What does it mean then?” Stiles asked, his hand went to the wolf’s shoulder and his index began tracing the dark glyph there lazily. When Derek cocked his dark eyebrows questioning, Stiles corrected himself. “I mean I didn’t understand what you said in Spanish before. I don’t know that language.”

 

“It means you made your choice by coming to my lair. All alone, just before your heart cycle.” Derek stroked Stiles’ hair before fisting it, jerking Stiles’ eyes to meet his. Everything about him smouldered: eyes, mouth, and body. Stiles could’ve come just with the pheromones the male shot into the air. “You offered yourself to me. I took care of you by making you mine. And I want your obedience in return.”

 

Stiles’ finger stilled on the glyph and amber eyes widened before flying to Derek’s face. Fear slowly crept thicker through his veins. “But...but I came here for help.” he murmured by way of explanation, barely moving his lips. “My heat... It just... It all happened by misfortune and you were not listening to me. I told you to lock me up.”

 

Derek yanked Stiles’ hair back exposing his mole dotted throat. His scalp screamed in pain, Stiles winced, holding onto the hand. He felt Derek nose skimming at his exposed jaw line. “Don’t need your justification. I fucked you because I wanted to. I made you mine again because I wanted to. And you’re mine now.” His broad palm splayed and pushed Stiles’ down until they eyes meet. A cold smile spread his scared lips. “All you need to know one thing,” he said on a gravelly purr, “As long you’re with me, it’s my way or the highway, Stiles.”

 

Stiles already felt his skin crawl at meeting the wolf’s stare for even so short a time, but he nodded his assent.

 

* * *

 

It was dark the next time he woke. Fear tried to claw its way through his mind, but Stiles shoved it away. He deliberately suppressed panic in order to assess his predicament rather than lose myself to terror.

_Fear never helps, only hinders._

His senses came back, creeping tentatively, as if afraid, even though the wolf was not physically there; he was still humming inside Stiles.

 

The new bond stuck like a greasy string to his ribcage, burrowing steadily. Stiles had only heard descriptions of the mate-bond and read about it in the camp’s Archives. Each Omega experienced the link differently. Some compared it to a wellspring; an endless offering of cool water—others to a knife wound that tore and twisted their insides. His felt like a worm, writhing and going deeper; a subjugation and a leash. Stiles already hated it. It was unwelcome, invasive, and something he could not ignore as much as he tried to.

 

His heart flurried, drinking in the terror. It made his breath quicken and legs itch to run. Forcing himself to ignore everything around him, Stiles focused inward. Clutching his inner strength where calmness was a need rather than a luxury.

He refused to lose myself in a fog of tears. Desperation was a curse and he wouldn’t succumb, because he had every intention of being prepared for what might happen next.

 

At that moment, the mate-bond hummed in an off-putting, out of tune twang. Like a bad note on a guitar.

 

Swallowing hard, Stiles hand reached up gripping the rough-cut pendent lying on his chest, above his heart. It reminded him of another time and place.

 

_“What stone is this?”_

_Stiles’ wide young eyes peered at the mirror as his little fingers feathered the purple gem hanging by a braided black leather cord around his neck._

_“It’s your birth stone, Amethyst.” His mom bent, clasping his bony shoulder and looking at his reflection with a warm smile. The dark tiny mole at the top corner of her lips made her more look beautiful. “So what do you say?”_

_“I love it.” Smile grinned at the mirror revealing the shiny braces on his teeth. “It’s so pretty. Thanks mom.”_

_“You’re welcome baby.” This mom beamed, identical amber eyes twinkling with happiness._

_“What do I do with this mom?”_

_She kissed his temple while he peered down at the pendent. “It’s you Gemin. Never lose it.”_

The flashback snuffed out like a butterfly’s life span, leaving him wanting. When Stiles opened his eyes, a lone tear trickled down the corner of his eyes as he stared at the ceiling. He looked so young, maybe ten or twelve and his mother was a very beautiful woman and he was sure he looked more like his mother—he had her cinnamon, amber eyes, her upturned nose, he even had beauty marks and moles like his mom did.

 

Wiping away the tear, Stiles carefully got out of bed, feeling sore all over, and checked for the bathroom. Feeling his way around the walls in search of a switch, he tiptoed his way, stumbled into unfamiliar furniture, and cursed. The feeling of the bathroom door came under his fingers. He went inside and flicked on the light. His checked out the bathroom as he slowly went inside. It was plain, just a toilet and sink and one roll of toilet paper.

 

Then his eyes landed on the mirror and the stranger stared back at him. In a camp where simple things were need, having a mirror meant luxury. It was the fourth time he was seeing the stranger. And It hurt so damn much to see himself but feel no love, no history— _nothing_ but smoldering anger for a brain so damaged it blocked everything out. Who was the man in the mirror and why did he hate him?

 

_Because I’m an Omega._

 

Eyebrows slightly creased, Stiles tilted his head and touched the pendant, feeling the rough edges on his fingertips. The stranger in the mirror copied him move for move. Then he slowly took the stranger in.

 

Naked and covered in Derek's semen, it was caked in his hair, Stiles felt shattered. In the hazy, blissful high of their frenzy, Derek'd fed it to Stiles, rubbed it into his skin—saturated him inside and out with that viscous liquid. If Derek had not spent so much time running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, Stiles was certain it would have been a matted mess.

 

Disgusted, he approached the stranger in the mirror. He leaned forward, touching the delicate skin beneath his eyes. No wrinkles apart from a few signs of maturity. He’d say he was midtwenties.

 

 

In the months since he'd seen his body reflected back at him, he had never felt so repulsed. After waking up Stiles had wanted to know who he was beneath the clothes. Wanted to shed the lingering past and had no reason to cling to things he couldn’t recollect. The dark magical artwork on his body fascinated him so as the scares. After all, the scars hinted at a terribly traumatic event in his past

 

Stiles’ gaze traveled down his front, tracing the sigils that covered his body. Dark red Celtic marks spanned his entire left side, up his rib cage, tapering between his pecs, and teased with the final design by his collarbone. But it was his right side that made his heart squeeze. Like always.

 

Burn marks.

 

Mottled tight and shiny skin graced a patch on the right side of his stomach, almost a mirror image of the gorgeous sigils on the left side of his chest and stomach. Where beauty was marked by magic, ugliness was left bare for the eyes to see.

 

He was a coin with two sides: scars and sigils. Skin grafts and magic markers. Stunning and hideous. Stiles almost smiled as he mused. Then suddenly he felt vertigo attack him and his vision tilted.

 

_“What does it feel like?” His mistress murmured, wiping a stray of grey hair from her forehead. Dark blue eyes bored into Stiles, the crinkled skin at corners of her eyes wrinkled with concern. “Does it hurt too much Gemin?”_

_The soothing smell of scented candles and incense floated cloyingly, everywhere but it did nothing to relax Stiles. He watched his mistress dip the buzzing needle in dark red ink._

_Mouth twisting in grimace, Stiles sniffed. “Like flames. Endless tiny teeth of fire.” He muttered though clenched teeth. “But not too much.”_

_His mistress nodded whispering a spell under her breath before she blew air across Stiles’ chest. Stiles felt the tingling sensation of magic merging with the ink and sipping into his skin._

_“Can you stand it?” she set the buzzing needle on his skin and Stiles gripped the padded arm of the chair. “To have it all done? We can do one at a time you know.”_  

__

_A tear squeezed from his eye as the needle_ _gyrated_ ,  _buzzed, and veered_   _over a bony rib. Stiles tipped his chin to see the tiny jackhammer skittered inside the already black inked border colouring his pale skin in wine red. The pain was indescribable. Awful and tear-inducing but… addictive, too._

_A peculiar kind of agony that soothed his soul. He could feel his magic right beneath his skin like a warm current linking with the ink._

_Stiles willed the pain to do what other things had failed to. He knew his dad would be proud of him after seeing him marked like his mom._

_Looking at his scared side, he let out a breathy chuckle, then looked at his virgin skin, and murmured, “I will look like a coin. Scars and Sigils.”_

 

The memory flickered luminescent like a lightning bolt, only to fade just as quickly.

_No!_

 

Stiles eyes flew back to the mirror landing on his face. His lungs worked hard, dealing with the sudden flashback as he saw the glow from the sigils to fade. Stiles knew why his sigils always lit up when he had a memory flash, because his memories were blocked by a very powerful magic and his own magic was fought against the barrier to bring back forgotten significant moments in his life.

 

Blinking, Stiles forced himself back to the present and narrowed his amber eyes as he tried to remember what had he seen, scanning his pale face. Unconsciously his thumb began stroking the sigil on his wrist as he tried to make sense of the memory. His mind hurtled from present to past as an aging face with dark blue eyes and warm smile flickered though his mind’s eyes.

 

The old woman was his mistress who had taught him magic!

 

Stiles gasped opened his mouth and promptly shut it when he gaze shifted to his neck zeroing on what he saw there. It was not the marks or memories that won his attention this time, but the inflamed bite mark on his shoulder, the swollen red scabs throbbing. Derek had bitten so deeply Stiles would carry the scar of his claiming forever.

 

Tracing a finger over the two crescent wounds, Stiles felt shame in his ignorance. While he’d read about mating and bonding in books, he didn't fully understand how the bond was formed, and took keen interest on other things. If he’d known, coming to the Dark Fortress meant being forcefully mated to the Devil-Alpha, he might have tried to lean more. All he'd understood was that it involved marking and an Alpha's initiation of the act.

Maybe it was just instincts.

_Only instincts..._

 

A sinking despair grew in his belly, made worse by the still thrumming string his body was trying to reject. Stiles closed his eyes briefly and took in a deep breath through my nose.

“Only instincts,” he said softly and scanned the rest of the simple lavatory. Either the man was fastidiously tidy or he had an underling clean for him. The sink was gleaming white, the mirror polished, not even a speck of toothpaste on it.

 

Opening the medicine cabinet, it was almost bizarre to find ordinary things such as a toothbrush and mouthwash. It was the Glyph markings maybe, the fact Derek Hale—the Alpha Wolf, had lived long enough in the underground cellars to garner so many. Stiles’d heard the Omegas in the camp say they were all unwashed savages, less than human.

 

Wavering between using the Alpha’s toothbrush to get the fuzzy feeling out of his mouth and disgusted because it was _his_ toothbrush, Stiles finally just reached for the damn thing. A few minutes later, his mouth no longer tasted like... things he didn't want to think about. Setting the toothbrush on the shelf in the exact position he'd found it in, Stiles turned towards the shower and cranked it on.

 

Stepping under a scalding spray, he invited the burn, wanting everything Derek off of him. Eyes closed, hair under the stream, he let water pour like lava over his body. The puncture wounds at his shoulder started to ooze, the scabs softening from the moisture.

 

There was only a basic non-scented bar of soap.

 

Every possible inch was scrubbed until his skin grew raw, every trace of _that_ male and his smell stripped away. Stiles soaped up his hair, dreaming of the days he couldn’t remember. When he'd had access to such simple things as shampoo. When it was done, he stepped out of the steam, looking at the man's towel, and chose not to use anything of his that might re-apply his scent to his body.

 

Skin bumped from the cold, he air-dried hair over the sink, trying his best to finger comb the brunet mess into order. Paranoid about punishment, he wiped down all traces of his time in that room, leaving it as close to how he'd found it as he could.

 

With the light from the bathroom streaming into the cell of Derek's den, Stiles found a table lamp and switched it on. In heat, his mind had not focused on such paltry things as furniture placement and decoration; all he'd seen was where he wanted to nest and the Alpha waiting to mount him.

 

After all the mouths in the camp of careful seclusion, all the tortured heat cycles spent locked away to prevent such a thing, when the authority had given him options to choose an Alpha for help,  it felt like he'd lost another part of himself knowing he had been mated... and not by an Alpha he'd chosen.

 

Now, he was somehow less; a failure. He had failed the humans of the camp. Death for a punishment now seemed far better than being mated to the Devil himself. The man who had bought upon misery to Beacon Hills and its people.

 

That humming little cord in his chest pulsed as if to suggest that he was more... that there was _more_ now. It whispered that Derek had only done what was supposed to be done.

The plaguing vibration made Stiles angry. Desperate, he grasped for any potential relief. The pair-bond was still new, it was fragile. Maybe he could break it?

 

How often had every other forcefully bonded Omega wished for the same thing?

 

Stiles thought and barked out mirthless laugh, which tapered into quite sobs. How quickly the little cord in his chest hummed, tempting him to accept his position, to submit to such a strong Alpha.

The feeling made him want to vomit.

It was unsettling; the change in Derek from the coercive beginning to the unquestioned authoritarian frightened Stiles. He had forced a mate-bond, made a choice that would impact the rest of Stiles life.

 

Alphas and Omegas only bonded once, except for extreme cases when mates died. It was Betas that lived without the bond. It was Betas Stiles suddenly envied. They had no heat-cycles and could still bear children. Betas got to choose. They mated at will, some even with the same partner for a lifetime, not from some device of nature that forced a permanent pairing. To make the sting that much greater, unlike Omegas, Betas were treated with the same respect as Alphas.

 

Betas were also second in the hierarchy of the three dynamics; they had freedom to do as they pleased with their lives. Omegas, so rare and highly desired, had been relegated to a prestige of prized pet—a status symbol for powerful Alphas to claim. They were smaller, no less intelligent, but as their numbers were decreasing it was an easy minority for the rest of the colonies to force into some archaic ideal.

 

The Alphas ruled the last bastions of civilization, were supreme in every Bio-Dome, every regulated quadrant, every powerful business, and there were a lot more of them than there were Omegas.

 

Looking over the dim room, ignoring the nest he'd built between sessions of being fucked, Stiles wondered about the man. Spartan was not exactly the right word for what he saw... maybe utilitarian was better. Only the basics existed: a bed, desk, small table, and a few other useful pieces of furniture; all mismatching, none chosen for anything other than practicality.

 

Then there was the bookcase.

 

Barefoot on a cold concrete floor, Stiles padded to the bookcase and looked at the titles, several of which were in different extinct languages, and found the collection of literature... surprising. These were the books of an intellectual, many clearly having been read more than once in the camp. Stiles didn’t recognize several of the authors, Nietzsche and Machiavelli to name a few, only because books penned by those men had been banned from the Archives.

The penalty for possessing such literature was so severe, even knowing the government had fallen, Stiles was nervous to touch them.

 

Then again, who but Derek was going to punish him now?

 

Limbs shaky from the toll taken on his body during heat, Stiles reached out and traced his finger over the spines. It was cold in that subterranean, windowless space—a reminder that Derek had dragged him down into the Undercroft.

 

Stiles abandoned his exploration and sought out his clothes... only to find that every shredded piece was gone. He would rather face Derek's wrath for wearing his clothing without permission than wait around naked like an odalisque.

 

Digging through the room's modest dresser, Stiles found a sweater that would pass for a dress on his much smaller frame. Pulling the grey thing over his head, he was relieved to find it clean, the garment holding only the faintest trace of the Alpha’s scent.

 

Stomach rumbling from hunger, he began to pace, his eyes inadvertently looking toward the part of the room saturated in the dried reek of their combined heat emissions: his nest. Stiles had built them before in seclusion—it was an obsessive part of the heat-cycle, everything arranged just so. Blankets, pillows, all forming the shape that best suited the Omega; that made the Omega feel safe. The idea of nests had always fascinated Stiles, the way he knew exactly where every piece should fit, the comfort he took in lying in the finished product; even though the ones he'd created in seclusion had never been used to mate.

 

Betas didn't nest. And base Alphas, or so he'd heard, would mount any Omega without allowing the nest, in a frenzy to begin the seeding. Proper Alphas understood the necessity. Derek had let him build it, had supplied extra blankets and materials aside from the usual things already on the bed. He'd even tried to help, crouched naked at Stiles side, tugging fabric and fluffing pillows to hand to him. When Derek’d become too involved, Stiles’d snarled and pushed his hands away. The nest was his job; Derek was an Alpha, his only job was to fuck him in it.

Stiles’ first mated nest was supposed to be something beyond special, a cherished memory, and not a thing that made his eyes well each time he foolishly glanced in its direction. There was nothing special about the fluid crusted, sticky arrangement he had woken up in.

 

Frowning, Stiles looked away before he screamed. The door was in his line of sight, one metal blockade between him and air that did not stink of sex. Pacing again, he tried to steady the wave of horror in his gut. The lack of windows, not knowing if it was day or night, feeling trapped underground, was itching uncomfortably under his skin. Stiles didn't even know where he was in relation to the Dome.

The longer he walked the length of the room, the more he wanted out of it.

He ran to the door and tried the knob, knowing it would be locked but needing to feel the immovable metal with his own fingers. The cry he made was unavoidable; a sad whimper of someone who'd hoped; someone on the verge of panic. He was a prisoner bound to a man he did not know; hungry, scared, and suffering an unwelcome thread that would not stop existing no matter how hard she willed it away.

 

By the time his captor returned, Stiles was stretched out on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

 

"You have been distressed," Derek grunted, sniffing the air. "Because you are hungry?"

 

Blinking at the ceiling, wondering if the wolf could feel just what he was thinking at that moment, Stiles glanced past the wolf to the door that was now unlocked, and imagined he might make a run for it. That freedom was his.

 

"I see," he grumbled, eyes narrowed to slits.

 

As a huff of tried breath rushed out of his lips, he admitted, "I am very hungry."

 

Crouching over Stiles, the wolf found his amber eyes "You woke sooner than I anticipated."

 

There were a million things Stiles wanted to shout. Instead, all he did was give a forlorn sigh. "I don't know what time of day it is."

 

"It is the midday hour. Food will arrive shortly."

 

"Grand." He murmured sarcastically before his attention went back to the cement ceiling.

 

The wolf went so far as to run his fingers over Stiles’ pouting lips. "Do you have any desire to mate?"

 

Stiles’ eyes shot to the wolf and his hands curled with the urge to punch his ruggedly handsome face—to make him bleed. But again, what would it achieve? Nothing. The result would be the same, just more painful.

 

"I do not," he grated, still frightened from all the rampant emotions running though him.

 

A dark sardonic brow quirked. “Are you sure?” He threaded his fingers into Stiles’s hair and palmed his scalp. “We could mate until your food arrives.”

 

Stiles gulped, and shook his head. It was all he could do to fight the urge to scoot away, certain it would only entice the wolf to chase and do it again. It was in their natural to hunt down their prey.

 

Small crinkles formed at the corner of Derek's eyes, the bastard was smug. The softest of purrs began, and in answer, Stiles’ uneasiness somewhat lessened. The unconscious reaction annoyed him, even more so when the wolf’s hand combed though his hair, pulling gently at the roots. Stiles’ eyes mechanically closed with the wave of contentment that came with each little tug.

 

By the time a sharp knock came to the door, Stiles was a puddle on the floor.

Derek called for the familiar Beta to enter, continuing to pet his Omega while his Follower set out a tray. Stiles wondered if he did it just to make a point to another nearby male, to be possessive, or simply because it seemed to appease him. Probably all three.

 

When they were alone again, the wolf gave Stiles a nudge to open his eyes, before cocking his head toward the table. "Eat."

 

He insisted on helping Stiles stand, making him touch him more than he wanted. Glancing at the delicious smelling tray, Stiles found that there was only food for him. Throughout the meal, Derek watched him as one watches prey, noting the minutiae of his movements. Stiles didn't like canned green beans, but he ate what was given. He hummed at the taste of ham. The glass of milk made his lips curl just a little.

There was a pill on the side of the tray, a thing Stiles had seen, then forgotten—too caught up in an actual warm meal. Derek's large fingers pinched it and held it out for Stiles to take.

 

"What is that?" Stiles asked, covering his mouth as he spoke.

 

"You are deficient in many nutrients from starvation and recent heat."

 

There was no point in arguing. Whether it was a vitamin or poison, if Derek wanted Stiles to take it, it would be a simple thing for him to force.

 

As he swallowed the tablet with some cool water, Derek said, "The blue pills I found in your coat pocket. Do you know what they were?"

 

Stiles brought the glass down from his mouth, his expression twisted with disgust. "They were supposed to be heat-suppressants—cost me a week's worth of food. I had been taking them for days before I came to the Citadel to beg for your help. Clearly, they didn't work, and you didn't help, either. So... as far as I see it, they were a bad joke."

 

Derek’s lips tightened. “Who do you think you’re taking to?”

 

Stiles recoiled, his mouth snapping shut. Averting his eyes, he hastily took sips of cool water to moisten his throat.

 

Reaching across the table for Stiles’ free hand, Derek wrapped his great palm around his wrist, tingling hotly. The sensation of the wolf’s touching him resonated right in his core.

 

“Put the glass down and stand up.” He ordered. Stiles’d never head a man speak with such unquestioning authority. Obediently he set the glass on the table between them and stood up.

 

With his overwrought never, “Ah—hey hey...” Stiles yelped startled when Derek pulled him around the table and onto his lap.

 

“Stiles....” he purred before slowly, he inserted a middle finger into his mouth and sucked. Stiles’ lips parted, mesmerized and panicked lust twisted his gut. Derek’s tongue licked with intoxicating grace before pulling his finger out from his mouth. "I had a lab analyze your pills.” His voice resonated deeper, more breathy. Slowly, he poked a finger through the fabric of the dress and found the dampness on Stiles’ thigh.

 

“What are you doing?” Stiles voice was little high pitched as he tried to squirm away. But strong finger bit on his hips holding him still.

 

Pale green eyes flicked to panicked ambers. “You continue to surprise me. I didn’t need to lick my finger after all.”

Cheeks pinked Stiles bit his tongue to lash out as Derek feathered up his leg and stroked his entrance. His finger slipped into wetness, and a groan rumbled in his chest. “The pills you’re refereeing as heart suppressants were quite the opposite, little one—designed to prompt your heat-cycle." Pressing his face into Stiles’ chest, his finger thrust inside, making Stiles gasp.

 

Stiles wanted to curse as he tried to grapple at the information thrown at him. He had no control. Derek stroked hard, quick, wrist rubbing against inner thighs as Stiles tried to squeeze his legs together to stop him. Derek wasn’t gentle, and Sties couldn’t focus on the touch and the worlds at the same time. He was surprised at how fast it was betraying him, like an addict after a fix.

 

Stiles heard Derek outline precisely what his lust-ridden mind didn’t allow him to think, "Someone clever is using your needs to hunt down the Omegas, knowing the females taking those pills will anticipate their effectiveness and go into heat out in the open. And like you, they will be mobbed, hunted down, or taken."

 

It took all of his concentration to form words and not think about what Derek’s hand was doing. "That's barbaric. You Alpha are so fucking evil..." Stiles panted.

 

Derek knew it was a generalized collective of Alpha Stiles was referring to, not him specifically, and did not allow more than a hint of anger to come through his voice. "Where did you get them?"

 

Sucking in a gasp, he closed his eyes as Derek hooked his finger, stimulating the g-spot. _Why was I allowing this?_ Stiles moaned, his ass grinding down on the wolf’s lap as pressure inside built to a crescendo. Oh, God. He couldn’t come. Not like this. Not with when his focus was slatted like that.

 

When Stiles failed to respond, his fingers pinched and twisted the throbbing clit painfully. “Stiles I asked you a question. Answer me, or I’ll need to get your attention another way.”

 

Stiles’ mind and body was at war and he was caught in the middle. After a deep shuddery breath, he admitted, "From the same men peddling drugs on the causeways; anyone has access to them. I approached as a Beta, covered my scent with magic."

 

His lips brushed Stiles’ neck. Instead of fighting, Stiles tilted his head back against the wolf’s shoulder to give him better access. Sighing, Derek groaned. “You’re a Halfling aren’t you?"

 

Forming words had become increasingly difficult so Stiles nodded jerkily his response.

 

"Why was a young Omega chosen to approach the Citadel.” He plunged his finger in further, causing Stiles to release a moan. “And not someone older,” He rubbed at Stiles harder, increasing the pressure, making him swell. “With less chance of entering heat or attracting attention?"

 

"I volunteered." Stiles admitted breathlessly. Derek hit a sweet spot that made his back arch, his eyes clench shut, his body want more of it, so much more.

 

"Why?"

 

For a moment, Stiles was tempted to tell the truth and wanted to believe that his mate would not harm him after knowing about his true intentions.

 

Sties’ eyelashes fluttered opening his eyes and he sucked a deep breath into his lungs, as his pussy quivered around the wolf’s assaulting fingers. "I—I am not humans like the others.” He found himself fabricating a deceiving answer so the wolf couldn’t pick up the uptick of his heart beat. “I’ve no memory of my past so I’ve nothing to lose. With—with my magic I can hide my scent and easily pass myself off as a Beta, and am trusted to think objectively for the collective as I—I have no mate or children." He would’ve been honest, if the male who was torturing him in such bittersweet way were another Alpha. Stiles could be many things but no fool. He would never for a moment delude himself into believing that Derek Hale the Brute Alpha would not hurt him.

 

“You killed that follower.” Nuzzling the exposed neck and shoulder, he continued. “He became sick and died today morning.

 

As Stiles’ inner muscles clenched greedily around Derek’ finger, and that brought Stiles to the edge of a frenzy, the pressure building inside him from so many different sources that it had to give. His arousal splintered, rocketing through his body in hard, violent waves. I cried out, yelling Derek’s name and his body rocked from the sensations that were blurring his mind and shocking his senses. He felt some sip in—deep inside—searching, tearing through his unremembered memories,—laying havoc to my existence.

_"It’s a wolf’s tattoo Gemin!”_

_Moonlight_ _shimmered over the treetops, _sprinkled_  silver  _through_  the tall  _branches_. The scent of jasmine drifted on the cool night, carried with it the sound of a nightingale. A_   _cool breeze_   _blew_ _shuddered though the branches overhead, then rustled the bushes._

_Stiles pulled his knees to his chest, soles caressing on the lush green grass beneath them and wrapped his free arm around them, releasing a long held sigh as he did “It’s you. I don’t care what others have to say or think.”_

_The boy sitting behind him huffed. “You know you can’t do that.”_

_Stiles twisted and plucked at the grass. “And why not?”_

_“Because it’s me Gemin. You can’t have a glyph that depicts me. It’s forbidden.”_

_“I don’t care if you’re an otherworld creature.”_ _Stiles trembled with hope. The connection—the inexplicable bond he shared with the dark-haired boy throbbed._ _He rested _his_  back against  _the__ _boy’s chest_ _who _wrapped__ _his arms around Stiles_ _, kissing _his_  hair_ _._ _“You could be anything and I’d love you.”_

_Chin perched on Stiles’ small bony shoulder, the boy held Stiles hand and traced his thumb across the wolf tattoo on the back of his palm. “You dad will scold you for this.” His breath tickled Stiles’ cheek._

_Stiles huffed dramatically. “He loves me. He understands how I feel about you.”_

_“But you’re only fourteen.”_

_“And that has never stopped me from giving you a blow job?”_

_The boy chuckled softly_ _and Stiles felt the gust of air against his ear and cheek_ _. “You can be such a brat sometimes.”_

_Stiles turned into the boy’s arms nestling closer and lightly rubbed his cheek against the boy’s shoulder. “You can be such a bore-wolf.”_

_He kissed Stiles’ ear, nibbling lightly on the earlobe._ _“I’ll be anyone you want me to be as long as you continue to love me.”_

_Stiles craned his neck looking up at the boy with a small shy smile, drowning in the adoration in the boy’s gaze. “Forever.”_

_The boy smiled. “For always.” He murmured kissing chastely on Stiles’ lips_

 

The flashback ended, hurling Stiles back to present and against the wolf pressed at his back. His ribcage rose and fell with and heart clenched as pain leeched through his blood.

 

Stiles was so far gone he barely heard Derek talking about the dead follower. He was swept away on that ship of emotions again, keeping pace with his body that was still spasming in the wolf’s hand. He was so overwhelmed by everything rushing to the surface that he found myself sobbing quietly, face pressed against Derek’s neck as the world ebbed and flowed around him.

 

There was a long pause, before Derek placed his spare hand gently on Stiles’ belly. “Little one,” he asked, his voice throaty but touched with concern, “are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

 

Stiles couldn’t answer. His racing heart stole all capability of speech. He couldn’t see the boy from his past. He’d been obscured—like a hazy lens or faulty photograph.

 

“Stiles are you listen to me?”

 

Stiles blinked rapidly pulling back from the wolf’s neck, panting, and red cheeked. His eyelashes wet from the weak tears. He looked up at Derek’s face. H sucked in a breathe when Derek pulled out his finger from his pussy.

 

“Why don’t you have any memory?” Derek brought his finger to his mouth and sucked. Sucked the glistening wetness lingering there, sucked Stiles; taste, his very essence.

 

Stiles’ core clenched. He cursed his body for responding when there might be someone else waiting for him. The boy from the flashback. His heart lurched at the thought of the boy. _Who was he? Where is he now? Was he dead or alive?_

 

Stiles thought witheringly about needing some serious counselling as he stared at Derek before shrugging mildly. “I don’t know. I don’t remember, can’t remember. When I woke up I was like this without memory, without anyone.” He cringed realizing his mistake. He wasn’t here to share such deep thoughts with Derek. Stiles was only talking with Derek to make the man believe and gain his trust enough to escape without him being too suspicious of anything.

 

"You have me now," Derek reminded Stiles, brush the sore bite mark he'd left on the pale shoulder. Stiles did his best not to cringe anymore and rubbed his lips together. "I claimed you. You belong to me now."

 

Stiles’ stomach churned and he worried his lip. Oh God what was he doing? He shouldn’t grow aroused by Derek when he had already committed his heart to someone else. He shouldn’t need the man who lived to make Stiles’ life hell, when he had someone’s else love. He shouldn’t have mixed emotions of hatred and need. He should just _hate._

 

Stiles turned around, astride Derek’s lap facing him and looking into his steady pale green eyes. "You could change your mind." He whispered.

 

For a split second, Derek seemed a little disappointed. He pressed his lips together for a moment; tightly enough that they started to turn white. He released and then leaned into Stiles, their nose almost touching. "I am not an impulsive man. I made a decision. What was done is done. I claimed you. You are mine now. That is all."

 

Stiles pushed Derek back for needing some space to breath, realizing the male couldn't care less about something as inconsequential as the personality of a Omega who would be compelled by the bond to be his mate. He wishes no longer mattered.

 

"But you don't even know me," He tried to explain.

 

In a low, enticing purr Derek explained, "It's amazing the things you learn about the omega writhing on your cock for three days."

 

Chagrin painted his cheeks red. Shoulder hunched Stiles hid his face in the palms of his hands. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! He had never heard any man talk like that.

Derek hooked a finger under Stiles’ chin and brought his flushed expression up to examine. Tracing the pink on Stiles’ cheeks, he murmured, "For example, you were pure... had not wasted yourself on the first Alpha to cross you in a heat. You also have a very strong will for a member of a submissive collective."

 

"It's not submission if you're forced!"

 

"If you had behaved, I would not have punished you." The way he spoke, the low rasped words, brought back all Stiles’ fear.

 

"I didn't want you to touch me— Ow"

 

He jerked Stiles against his chest, never looking away. “ _Litte one_...” He ran his nose along Stiles’ cheek, dipping to neck and collarbone. Hot breath increased heart flurries to a million a second. Stiles wanted to run fingers through the wolf hair, to press hips against his—but he swallowed the diabolical urges. That wasn’t what he really wanted to do. _I want to slit his throat so I can run home to the dark-haired boy._

 

Sharp teeth nipped his throat, stealing his balance as his knees buckled. "I will touch you when I wish, any way I wish."

 

All the accumulating stress, the horror, the rage, just made him snap. Yanking out of Derek’s arms, he jumped out of the chair, landing on his shaky feet and pinned the wolf with ablaze eyes. "I do not want to be tied to a brute...” he snarled baring his tiny fangs at the wolf. “...to be pawed at and raped by a stranger—especially a male who wants me to sell my kind into sexual slavery!"

 

Derek froze, lips pursed, nostrils flaring. Then he slowly rose to his feet, still silently glaring, before _he grabbed Stiles chin_ , f _ingers digging into his cheek, the cold seeping into his brain_. “Raped?” Derek bellowed causing Stiles to cringe and hunch up as small as he could, holding up his hands. “Don’t you ever dare say I raped you _. You_ wanted it. _”_

 

Tears angry and unexpected filled Stiles’ eyes. Stiles didn’t know how to react to that. His heart was hammering in his throat, and felt sick with fear. “Derek, please, I’m sorry!” Stiles pleaded, desperate to make him stop. “Please, I’m sorry.” His hands were pushing at Derek’s chest in a futile attempt to put some distance between them. He could hardly believe he had screamed out his feelings, staring at the seething male with frightened eyes.

 

Chest strained in his leather armor, jerking Stiles forward, Derek leaned in, kissing the shell of Stiles’ ear. He whispered harshly, "You screamed and begged. You scratched and snarled if I did not fuck you when you wanted to be mounted. Have you forgotten? Shall I remind you?"

 

Body trembling in fear, Stiles was already shaking his head. But there was no question of what was coming next. Derek virtually plucked him from floor, returning to the nest they had created in the heat. Stiles tired to scramble away, but Derek caught his legs, and dragged him back. He tried to struggle again, but it was futile. Derek’s arms were completely immovable, holding Stiles securely in his grip.

 

The stolen shirt was ripped from over Stiles’ head before Derek began to peel out of his own clothing.

 

Stiles watched him, frozen in place by a mixture of fear and strange anticipation. His clothes came off, revealing the powerfully masculine body underneath, and Stiles felt a wave of desire rolling through me, heating up my core.

 

Stiles wanted to bang his head on the cold hard floor. He wanted Derek. Despite everything, he wanted the male and that was the most screwed-up thing of all.

 

It was unfair how easily Derek could subdue him. He was pressed naked into the cold, sticky fabric, trembling, but too proud to apologize or beg. It would have been pointless anyway.

 

Gripping Stiles’ throat, Derek dipped his head and brushed his cheek against Stiles, back and forth, as though enjoying the soft texture of the omega’s skin against the roughness of his

stubble-covered jaw. His fingers didn’t squeeze, but the threat was there, and Stiles could feel himself shaking, his breathing speeding up in terrified anticipation.

 

“You want me, don’t you?” he whispered in Stiles’ ear, his hand dipped between the trembling legs, lightly stroking Stiles’ sex, and his muscular thighs spread them open. Stiles knew the wolf could feel the moisture there, and suppressed a moan when one long finger pushed inside him, rubbing against the slick inner wall. “Don’t you, Stiles?”

 

“No.” Stiles gasp as he touched a particularly sensitive spot.  

 

“Don’t lie.” His voice was harsh, demanding. He wanted Stiles’ complete surrender.

 

“No... No... I don’t.” Stiles denied in a broken whisper. _He rolled his head back and forth against_  the  _pillow desperately._

 

Derek let go of Stiles’ throat, kissed his neck, nibbled on the sensitive spot near his shoulder and let out the slow animal growl that caused Stiles to gush. His folds grew slick, his body instinctively answering the call of his Alpha. “Still wanna say no, little one?”

 

 “Fu—fuck you!” Stiles shouted. _His_  chest rose and fell in gasps. His _hips squirmed_  under the touch while he pressed his head more into the pillow and  _his hands fisted_  the  _bedsheet as he fought not to drown in the tension gripping him_. Tears of bitter frustration slid down his face. He hated being so weak, so easily handled. Derek was not even winded from their struggle.

 

Derek chuckled softly and tried to kiss Stiles on the lips but Stiles yanked his head away. He sighed heavily nuzzling Stiles’ neck. “Denial. Denial.”

 

He continues tugged and teased Stiles, spreading the secretion, circling the nub of nerves at the apex of his sex while the Omega wriggled pointlessly in an attempt to get away. Stiles was twitching each time the wolf pinched the little bud, so frustrated and outraged that when his cock was jammed inside him, he screamed. His cry was far more than aggravated anger. It was positively dripping with the unwanted hunger the growls and touches his mated Alpha forced on him.

 

Holding Stiles’ hands pinned by his head, Derek began to pump his hips, his pale green eyes darned with lust was locked on Stiles. He made that growl again, felt the omega’s juices around his cock, and grinned with easy carnality. Each thrust filled that slippery vice, stretching, and making the thread hum with a sense of completion.

 

“Shit,” Derek groaned. “Goddammit, you feel fucking amazing.”

Smog clouded Stiles' vision as his eyes rolling into his skull.

_“Oh, baby, you smell so amazing.”_

_Stiles_ _drew in a strangled breath_ _realization that _he_  was completely in love with his wolf ricocheted into him at the same time that him body exploded_. _Shutting his_ _eyes tight,_ stars danced like fireflies in the darkness of closed lids as _he rode out his first climax outside of his heat._

_The dark haired boy pressed butterfly kisses all over Stiles’ sweaty brow. “That’s it baby, I’ve got you. You look so beautiful like this.”_

_Stiles gasped kissing him back and moaned as the boys rubbed his thumb over Stiles’ oversensitive tingling clit._

_Stiles stroked the boy’s back and kissed the boy’s cheeks and lay silently below him. Too speechless to form words. Too sexed out for his mind to work properly._

_Experiencing anything sexual out of heat was such an extraordinary experience that he wanted to cry but he didn’t. Why he didn’t experience it before? Why his boyfriend denied him of such pleasure for so long? Maybe he didn’t feel right? Maybe it was their age difference that stopped him? It was such a bittersweet moment he didn’t know what to do._

The flashback came and went, so full of emotion and heartache, Stiles choked on a sob. He couldn’t contain the messed up feeling the memory brought. The boy who’d given him pleasure had been so tender, so kind, so in love with him.

He felt so free with the boy.

And here… with a man he didn’t know driving into him with reckless uncaring, he felt… trapped.

 

When it was too much, when Stiles couldn't hold back the waves of compelled ecstasy, he called out his hatred, cursing Derek to the pits of hell, between pleasured gasps and long moans.

 

Derek just laughed and fucked Stiles harder, pistoning his hips the way he'd learned his little Omega liked best. He forced Stiles’ legs higher, wider, opening him to deeper and harder penetration.

 

The heat of his flesh scalded Stiles’ thighs; the rush of his breath tickled Stiles’ chest. He wanted Derek to come. He wanted his release. He wanted to have that power. With a wanton moan, Stiles came, still calling out obscenities, full of coerced rapture until only the wolf’s name was on his lips. 

_"Derek... Derek...Derek..."_

 

The knot grew, his cock forced as deep as it could go the instant Stiles’ muscles began clenching rhythmically to draw out the wolf’s seed. Watching Derek grunt like a beast, Stiles felt the thick spurted ropes of cream, lost in the rapture of his greedy pussy milking his cock until he was pooling with the stuff.

 

While the knot persisted, Derek looked into disoriented amber eyes and demanded roughly, "Whose name did you call as you came?"

 

Stiles could hardly breathe, was on the ebb of a powerful climax that shook him to his bones. He whispered, trying not to cry, "Y—yours."

 

"Because _I_ am your Alpha." It was almost a roar. "You _want_ to be fucked by me! Do you understand?"

 

Shaking his head, bottom lip quivering, Stiles spoke the truth. "I—I  don't understand."

 

Unfazed by the challenge, Derek coldly said, "Then allow me to show you again."

 

Once the knot subsided, he took Stiles gently, coaxing and stroking, his thrusts slow and calculating. He played his omega’s body like a violin, drew out every possible sound a pleased omega male could make, gave Stiles the type of orgasm that builds slow and burns long, watching him as a cat watches a mouse hole.

 

It continued for hours, as Derek stripped away all Stiles’  petty convictions until Stiles was too exhausted to fight back, until his hands began to reach for Derek in a sex-induced daze, to stroke his back and trace the lines of his horrid glyphs. When his point had been thoroughly made, Derek held Stiles against him and purred as he petted and licked, rewarding the wayward Omega for coming to heel.

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish: Así que dejen de pelear conmigo. Porque voy a hacerte mío. Créase o no, mi pequeño  
> Translation: So stop fighting with me. Because I am going to make you mine. Believe it or not, my little one.( I'm not sure if it is completely correct but this is close to what I could translate)
> 
> 1\. [Derek's Armor](http://images.maskworld.com/is/image/maskworld/bigview/elf-leather-armor-black--mw-107460-13-1.jpg)  
> 2\. [Derek's gylph on his back](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-leB9AX9yHOI/VnXDJxUKYnI/AAAAAAAAG1g/q_hDZmgOLu4/s1600/101-hinh-xam-dep-nhat-cho-nam%2B%25282%2529.jpg)  
> 3\. [Derek's gylph ](http://www.kersaber.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/Tatuagens-tribais-homem-e1314558880679.jpg)  
> 4\. [Stiles' sigil on his wrist](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a8/87/1e/a8871ee6acc650e4859c250a2127e6f3.jpg)  
> 5\. [Stiles' gylph on the back of his palm](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/21/2b/83/212b83ad5fce18e8ad418ca3fe69d01d.jpg)  
> 6\. [Stiles' pendant](https://img0.etsystatic.com/015/0/8010363/il_570xN.448326780_e7e3.jpg)


End file.
